


My Soul to Save

by palathene



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Death, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Miscarriage, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Abuse, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 00:40:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3790189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palathene/pseuds/palathene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco wakes in St Mungo's.  Why is he there - and why is Harry Potter his Healer?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Prompt #4 Draco's living a perfectly ordinary life, until he runs into Potter on the street. Now he has flashbacks of Harry trying to talk to him, asking him how he is. Of himself in a white, empty room. **Optional extras:** It turns out Draco was cursed and resides in the Janus Thickey Ward and Harry is his doctor.
> 
> This got a little bit away from me. It's not 100% according to the prompt, and it's not quite as 'horror' as I had hoped, but I hope you enjoy it anyway! Thank you to my wonderful beta who shall remain anonymous, lest they give the game away.  
> The title is inspired by the following quote:
> 
>  
> 
> _"The worst memories stick with us, while the nice ones always seem to slip through our fingers." (Rachel Vincent, My Soul to Save)_

Draco hadn't been able to get to sleep. His mind kept replaying the afternoon's events, over and over again. He'd never seen Aunt Bella so angry before, or so focused. He could still hear Granger's screams. 

Of course he had recognised Potty. You couldn't hate someone for six years and not know them, despite the Mudblood's efforts – no, not Mudblood. Draco felt oddly charitable towards Granger, because if she hadn't had the sword, and distracted Aunt Bella, then he wouldn't have been able to stall for much longer. He didn't even think Merlin himself knew how things would have gone otherwise.

And now, as he turned over to stare out of the window, he was even thankful for the damned house-elf. Dobby had always been a bit odd, even for an elf, but his timing was almost impeccable. 

Almost. 

Draco had seen the knife.

It was nearly three in the morning, and his parents were still with the Dark Lord. He wondered if they would be coming home. Before answering the summons, Mother had taken him to one side and told him, with a few words and a brief glance, how proud she was of him. Draco wasn't an idiot. He knew that Saint Potter and his sidekicks were the best chance they had of escaping the Dark Lord.

Being a Death Eater wasn't exactly what he had thought it would be.

The Cruciatus curse was more painful than he had expected it to be.

Uncle Severus was disappointed, and that hurt more than anything.

There was a creak on the stairs. Draco sat up. Were they home? Were they safe?

"Draco..." His door opened softly and his aunt's husky voice drifted across the expanse of his room. 

His shoulders slumped before he could stop himself.

"Yes, Aunt Bellatrix?"

"I'm glad you're awake, Draco." She entered, shutting the door behind her. Draco reached for his wand when she locked it. "I wanted to talk to you about what happened today."

"It's very late, Aunt."

"And yet you are still awake." She drifted through the darkness on silent feet, her voice coming closer and closer. His mind ran through the hexes he knew to see if there were any he could get away with using on his crazed aunt before she could react. He didn't think so. Azkaban had driven her insane, but it hadn't slowed her down.

"I was having difficulty sleeping, Aunt Bella."

"Poor Draco," she purred, her voice next to his ear. He stiffened; he hadn't noticed her coming so close. Her hand snaked down his arm to clutch his wand. "It's been a very busy day, hasn't it?"

"Very," he agreed, stifling panic as she dropped his wand and kicked it away. "I am rather tired, Aunt."

"Poor, poor Draco," she whispered, her lips close to his ear. He could smell the cloying perfume she wore, the scent of jasmine hitting him like a hex. "It must have been hard for you to watch this afternoon. I know how long you've hated the Mudblood for. Would you have liked to help me, my dear nephew?"

His lips were dry. "I don't think I would have been much help, Aunt. You were very thorough." Oh, Merlin, she was screaming again, Granger, and he couldn't shut her up. Bellatrix's hand moved from his arm to his chest, pushing him gently back onto the pillows.

"Yes," Bellatrix agreed; a gentle smile on her face that was more sinister than her laughter ever could be. "You disappoint me, Draco."

"I–I'm sorry?" he choked. 

She was straddling him, pinning his arms down. "You knew it was Potter."

"I– His face was so distorted, Aunt Bella. I wanted to be sure. The Dark Lord would not have been happy if we had been wrong."

"Don't lie to me, Draco Malfoy!" The slap rang out, drowning out Granger's screams. Draco stared up at his aunt in shock, his cheek stinging. "You knew," she said, her voice once again soothing, the anger gone. "You didn't want the Dark Lord to have Potter, did you?"

"Aunt Bella–"

"Silence!" There it was again, the madness. He flinched when she drew her wand; she took the opportunity to tie his arms to the headboard so tightly that his hands started tingling within seconds.

"You have so much potential, Draco," she said with a sigh, running her hand down his chest. "The Dark Lord has high hopes for you." She pinched his nipple hard. He cried out in pain and was rewarded with a beatific smile. "Lucius was once like you, my dear nephew. So young, so virile, so _powerful_. I would have married him myself, were it not for Narcissa. But you, dear Draco, you could be the Dark Lord's right hand; you could have the world at your feet."

"Aunt Bella, please don't–"

_"Silencio."_ Her voice was singsong as she cut through his pleas. "You have been too long guided by fools, Draco. Lucius is weak-willed and reluctant to show you how to please the Dark Lord. Severus is a traitor, I _know_ it, and his time will come." She placed a tender kiss on his cheek. "I will teach you, sweet Draco. I will mould you into the perfect Death Eater for our Lord. _Crucio._ "

Draco could almost have sworn, through the haze of pain, that she was laughing. Her eyes met his and they were green, bright green–

* * *

"–you today, Draco?"

White, everywhere white; her laughter ringing; the pain, he could still feel it; his arms and legs were flailing, if he caught her, then he'd kill her, aunt or no–

"Shit, he's seizing! Get me someone from Spell Damage, now!"

–more screams, this time his own, he'd broken the Silencing Spell–

–then darkness, and he was safe; she couldn't reach him here.

 

"Good morning, Draco."

The bed wasn't his own. He knew this because his sheets were silk and this felt like cheap cotton, maybe even some filthy Muggle textile like polyester or nylon. He'd shagged a Mudblood once, and she'd had nylon tights; he hadn't even pretended to be sorry when he'd torn them off her. If he'd been captured by Scarhead and his merry band of Weasels then, so help him, he'd kill them all.

Draco opened his eyes reluctantly. He wasn't at home, but the room didn't have the stench of poverty that he had always imagined at the Weasleys' hovel. It didn't have much of anything, in fact. The walls were white, the ceiling was white, and if he could manage to raise his head, the floor would probably be white, too. How very... imaginative.

"Take your time, Draco." He didn't recognise the voice, but the fact that they weren't calling him Malfoy – or worse, Ferret – was a good sign. Draco flexed his fingers, moved his arms gently – he wasn't restrained; that was a better sign – before sitting up, holding his head.

"My head," he said, to nobody in particular, "feels like it was shagged by an angry and drunk Veela." His voice was hoarse, rough; how long had he been out?

"I haven't heard that one before," the voice said, sounding amused. "I'll send for something to ease the pain." A flash of silver caught his eye; it was gone before he could turn his head. He could see the speaker, a middle-aged man with messy black hair who was bent over a clipboard.

"Apart from the headache, how are you, Draco?" The speaker looked up. Draco saw a faded scar and emerald green eyes. He leant over the side of the bed and vomited onto the clean, white floor.

"What the hell happened?" he asked, wiping his arm across his mouth.

Potter – it had to be him – sighed. "You had a seizure in the early hours. Looks like your stomach didn't handle the stress very well." He flicked his wand and cleaned the floor.

"I donít mean that. Where the _fuck_ am I, Scarhead, and what the hell happened to you? Did someone swap out your shampoo for an Ageing Potion?"

Potter sighed again, made another note on the clipboard. "What's the last thing you remember, Draco?" he asked, his voice unusually soft and kind.

_Bellatrix, carving her kisses onto his skin with a knife, her sweet promises to help him please her, please the Dark Lord, the scent of jasmine; wishing he had been the one to die instead of the lucky house-elf._

"Go fuck yourself, Potter. Better yet, go fuck Weasley. I would suggest Granger, but she's probably in the Library trying to find a way to have sex with a book without damaging the pages."

Potter had the nerve to smile. "I haven't heard that one, either." He murmured a spell and a silvery stag shot from the end of his wand. "Patient appears to have relapsed; restart the treatment and cancel any visits for the immediate future," he instructed. The stag bowed its head before leaping through the wall. Potter fixed his brilliant gaze onto Draco.

"Would you prefer to wait for the potion to ease your headache before I explain?" he asked.

"I want you to _go away_ and leave me in peace. You'll be doing yourself a favour, Potty, because when my father–"

"Your father died two years after the war ended," Potter interrupted, his face impassive. "He wasn't sent back to Azkaban after the Final Battle, you may be pleased to know – you usually are – and he wasn't entirely hated when he died."

Draco's throat was dry. "That's not funny," he snarled.

"No, it's not. Your father and I never saw eye to eye, but I know how much he regretted his actions, and I came to see how much he cared about you." Potter looked away. "They say it was lingering damage from the battle that killed him."

"I don't know what games you're playing, Potty, but you'll have to try harder than that." Draco's hands had clenched into fists without him noticing. "I'm not going to give you anything, so you might as well just _Crucio_ me now and get it over with." _No, please, not that, anything but that, kill me first._ "The Dark Lord will find you, and when he does, he'll kill you."

For some reason, this only amused Potter. A little chime went off and he turned, plucked several potions vials off the floor where they had just appeared.

"This is a standard Pain Reliever," he said, handing a little blue potion to Draco. "It's one dose, take it all. It should help with the after-effects of the seizure as well as the headache." He didn't know his hands had been shaking until Potter said that. "The green one should help keep you in the here and now."

"I won't take these."

Potter's smile faded. "You'll take them, or I'll spell them down your throat," he said flatly. "I've spent too many years looking after you to have you quit now."

Draco became very aware that he was facing down a holly wand – hadn't Potty's wand been broken? – and a determined Harry Potter. Even the Dark Lord was cautious in such situations.

He took the potions.

"When are you going to let me go?" he asked. "I'm telling you, Potter, I don't know anything. The Dark Lord, he–"

"I killed Voldemort twelve years ago," Potter said. His eyes weren't watching Draco; they were fixed on a far off point. "You're in St Mungo's, Draco. You and I have had this conversation roughly six times a year since I took over your care."

Draco was starting to feel drowsy. "What have you done to me?" he whispered.

"Nothing worse than what you did to yourself. You need rest to recover from the seizure." Potter turned to leave. "I'll come back this evening to check on you. Call if you need something in the meantime."

"I need a piss."

Potter's wand slashed towards the bed; he saw a pan slide out from under it.

"A bedpan, Potty?"

"You used to have a toilet. It wasn't safe." Potter paused as he reached the opposite wall. "I really thought we had it this time," he muttered.

"Had what?"

Potter's shoulders sagged. "I'll explain another time. With luck, your mind will recover the past two hundred or so days once the pain eases." He shook his head and then chuckled. "You were right, Draco," he added as an afterthought, a door appearing when he pressed his hand to the wall.

"I always am. What about this time?"

"Voldemort. He _did_ kill me when he found me." The door slid shut behind Potter and vanished. Draco lay back down, fighting the drowsiness as he tried to figure out what the hell was going on.


	2. Chapter 2

_She_ was there. He could feel her eyes boring into him. The Dark Lord was elsewhere for the day, meaning that for once he had been able to enjoy a family meal with his parents. His father was haggard, in desperate need of a shave and some sleep, his voice scratchy as he asked Draco how school was progressing. Mother was implacable, serving tea with a grace that only occasionally lapsed to show how her hands shook. Aunt Bellatrix was nowhere to be seen and that in itself made him uneasy.

"Have you considered the Parkinsonsí offer?" Draco snapped his attention back to the table and to Father's words.

"Yes, sir," he answered. "I have discussed it with Pansy, and we have agreed that it would not be beneficial to the cause for us to wed."

Mother stirred the tea, shuddering when the spoon clinked against the delicate china.

"May I ask why?" Father asked. It was a sign of how far he had fallen. Lucius Malfoy did not ask.

"Pansy feels she would be of more use encouraging some of our wayward friends to return to the fold," he said in a monotone. "She has designs on Blaise Zabini."

"Such a crude girl." Mother sipped her tea; none of the slurping that the lower classes enjoyed. "You need someone with more subtlety, Draco, darling."

_Dear Draco._ He shivered.

"Something wrong, son?"

"Just a chill, Father." After the Cruciatus, it was difficult to endure the cold for long. "Are you on good terms with the Greengrass family?"

"Greengrass?" Mother looked interested. "They have a daughter in your year, don't they?"

"And one in the fifth, Astoria."

"Greengrass," Father mused. "That would indeed be a good union, Draco. I shall look into it for you."

"Thank you." Draco glanced around, expecting to see Bellatrix leap out of the shadows. There was no sign of her and he relaxed for long enough to clear half of the food on his plate. He felt Mother's approving smile.

"Will you be returning to school tonight, Draco?"

_Yes, please, don't make me stay here._ "The Headmaster offered the use of his Floo if I wanted to return tomorrow," he said neutrally. "I do have homework to attend to."

"I shall have an elf freshen your room, dear. If you wish to stay, feel free."

Draco smiled at his mother. A strange sensation washed over him and for the first time since– for the first time in a long while, he felt calm and at peace.

_Come into the garden._

He frowned. Why would he need to go there? It was almost dark outside.

_Come into the garden, dear Draco._

"May I be excused, Father? I wish to take a walk before retiring."

"Very well, Draco." Father nodded his head. Draco rose, placing his cutlery neatly to one side of his plate before ambling out of the dining room. He felt practically serene as he walked out of the manor. The garden was a good idea. Listening to the voice was a good idea. It called him along the gravel paths and into the rose gardens. He side-stepped an irate peacock and stopped, waiting for another good idea to come along.

He could smell jasmine.

"Good boy." Her voice, her praise; the serenity fled, leaving sheer terror in its wake, oh Merlin, the Imperius.

He swallowed the lump in his throat. "Aunt Bella," he said, inclining his head in greeting. "I did not expect to see you here this weekend. I thought you were attending to our Lord's business in London." And if he'd known otherwise, he would never have left the safety of Hogwarts.

She stepped out of the shadows, the low moon casting a silvery glow across her wild hair that made her look ethereal, like a demon rising from the abyss.

"I returned as soon as I heard my dear nephew was here," she said, planting a kiss on his cheek that lingered uncomfortably. "After your last visit home, I couldn't wait to see you again."

Draco stiffened. "You must excuse me, Aunt Bella. I'm afraid I have homework." He nodded again and walked away.

She laughed, her high-pitched, manic cackle. "Yes, dear Draco." Draco froze as a second shadow emerged. He recognised the silhouette before he ever saw the face. A rough hand clamped over his mouth, a second wrapped around his arms, and the foul stench of Fenrir Greyback washed over him.

"I was very sad at how quickly you left me last time," Bellatrix pouted. "We've had some fun nights together recently, love. You hate me, don't you?"

"Yes," Draco hissed, struggling against the werewolf. The moon wasn't full, but it wasn't far off, and he was terrified.

"I can tell," Bellatrix smiled. "You have enough hate to fuel a thousand Unforgivables, Draco. When you go back to school, when you find Muggle-lovers and blood traitors, _use it_. Imagine that you are casting them on me." She threw her head back, baring her elegant neck, moaning as if she was caught in a Cruciatus. Fenrir's grip tightened on him and Draco could feel the werewolf was growing hard from the performance.

"I've forgiven you for your... lapse with Potter and the Mudblood," she said, walking closer, stroking his cheek. "You've been a very attentive boy since then, darling Draco. You've made your aunt proud." She ran her tongue from the corner of his mouth along his cheek, nibbled on his earlobe, slipped his wand out of his pocket. "We've had a lot of fun together, haven't we?"

Draco struggled again. 

Fenrir pressed him back against his arousal. "You promised," Fenrir growled.

"Patience," Bellatrix snapped. She returned to crooning in Draco's ear. "I wasn't the only one disappointed when the Mudblood escaped, my dear boy. Fenrir was looking forward to breaking her in."

_Oh God, no!_ Draco, with a strength he didn't know he possessed, brought his foot up behind him into Greyback's crotch. The werewolf howled in pain; Draco shoved Bellatrix away and ran for it, screaming for help. He made it out of the rose gardens, so close to the safety of the house, when a weight charged into him and knocked him to the ground. He felt hot breath on his ear. Greyback.

"You don't want to make it up to Fenrir?" Bellatrix was lying on the floor beside him, her breasts almost spilling out of her robes, giving him an unwanted eyeful. "Would you rather I ask Narcissa to apologise on your behalf, Draco?"

"You leave Mother alone!" he growled, glaring at Bellatrix with loathing.

"She'd make a fine toy for a werewolf," Bellatrix continued as if she hadn't heard him, "and the Dark Lord is displeased with your family. He wouldn't protect her."

"Sheís your sister!" Even as he said it, he knew it didnít matter, not really. Her laughter proved him right. She didnít even dignify his outburst with a response.

"You should have named Potter," Fenrir uttered, pressing his arousal between Draco's legs. "The Mudblood should have been mine."

"Shall I ask Narcissa?" Bellatrix asked, stroking his hair.

Draco couldn't speak, couldn't bring himself to actually say the word that would spell his doom. He pressed his face into the earth, shook his head.

"I'm so proud of you," Bellatrix whispered as Fenrir began to claw at his trousers. "Narcissa is lucky to have such a devoted, caring son." Draco howled into the earth as Fenrir forced his way inside. "Don't worry," she added, kissing his head tenderly, "he promised he wouldn't bite."

This time his tears soaked the earth, and he prayed it would open and swallow him whole.

* * *

Draco awoke with a scream to white walls. The same white walls. There was no earth here, no gardens, no shadows, no werewolves. _No Bellatrix._

"Here." Saint Potter's voice was near his bed and a plastic cup of water was pressed into his hand. "You looked like you might need it."

He accepted the water gratefully, though pride forced sarcasm to the fore. "Been watching me sleep, Potter?"

"Do you remember speaking to me yesterday, Draco?"

He drained the water in one go. "I'm not an idiot."

This adult version of Scarhead was annoyingly patient. "That's a good sign," he murmured, studying the damned clipboard again. "Do you mind if I ask you some questions?"

"I already told you, Potter, I don't know anything."

"Here." Potter threw something at him. Draco caught it from reflex more than anything else, with a healthy dose of luck thrown in for good measure. It was a mirror.

"I'm not _that_ vain."

"Look at yourself, Draco." 

His eyes were slowly drawn down to the mirror. In it, he saw his father. Once he shook his head and looked again, he could see himself – but not himself: there were lines on his once perfect skin, he had a beard of sorts, probably because the jokers looking after him hadn't thought to give a trapped man a shave; his eyes were tired and cloudy; his hair longer than he had ever grown it before, and limp. He looked old, and he looked fed up.

"You gave me potions yesterday."

"They didn't do this, Draco." Potter's voice was soft. "This is a private room off the Janus Thickey Ward at St Mungo's."

Draco laughed. "You're serious?"

"Yes." Potter took the mirror back. "I'm the Healer assigned to your case."

Again he laughed, except this time the laughter wouldn't stop, not until he was nearly crying laughing. Potter waited it out, refilled the cup with water as his laughing fit came to an end.

"You're a Healer?" Draco chuckled again, sipped the water. "I thought you would have been an Auror. Charging in, chasing down bad guys... It's a very Gryffindor thing to do."

"I was an Auror." Potter let him finish the water before taking the cup away. "For two years. By then, I was fed up of fighting. I thought Healing would be something different."

"You're hiding something."

"Nothing I haven't told you before, Draco."

Draco frowned. "I haven't spoken to you since–

_the Room of Requirement?_

"–since Granger's blood stained the carpets at Malfoy Manor." He watched Potter closely for a reaction. It was disappointing when there was none.

"You're getting predictable, Draco." Potter grinned. "You say that to me every time. Hermione is now the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She's made her peace with what happened during the war." Potter studied him closely. "She came to see you once."

"Only once? I'm touched."

"It triggered a relapse." Potter sighed. "I'm doing this all wrong. Draco, do you know why you're here?"

"Yes."

Potter started. "You do?"

"Yeah, I'm a performing ferret in a fucking cage. Squeak, squeak."

_That_ managed to crack Potter's calm. Draco felt like he'd finally scored a point.

"You began receiving treatment as an outpatient approximately six months after the Battle of Hogwarts," Potter began reciting mechanically. "You were suffering from poor concentration and issues with your short-term memory. In 2004 you became a resident of the Janus Thickey Ward following an incident, as a result of which you lost all of your memories from the time we spent in Malfoy Manor during the war."

"Incident?"

"I took over your case after you'd been here a year," Potter carried on, raising his voice.

"What incident?"

"We've developed a regime of potions and exercises that seems to have shown some success in helping you retain your memories for a period. The last one, a period of two hundred and one days, was the longest you have retained any new memories since you were admitted. The goal is to get you stable enough for you to return home."

"What sort of incident are we talking about here, Potter?"

Potter looked tired. "The sort that you and I will discuss when you are improving," he said, clutching his wand thoughtfully before slipping it into a pocket. "Over the next few weeks, we're going to concentrate on bringing you up to date and re-establishing your ability to make and preserve new memories."

Draco's voice was like ice. "What incident led to me being locked up in this insane asylum, Potter? Don't I have a right to know?"

"No, actually," Potter snapped, cool facade shattering. "When you were admitted to our care, we were given authority by your surviving family to only share what information we deemed relevant to your recovery. You have _no_ rights, Draco, until you get better. If you want to know everything, then you need to co-operate." A chime signalled the arrival of today's potions. Potter threw them at him. "Yellow is a variant on the Wit-Sharpening Potion. It should help clear some of the fog. Pink–"

"I am _not_ taking a _pink_ potion, Potter."

"Pink is a mood stabiliser. The grey one will start to repair any damaged cells caused by the seizure yesterday; we can only hope that this isn't a full relapse and is just a side-effect of that. Green–"

"Keeps me here and now," Draco finished sourly.

"Exactly." Potter massaged his temples. "Take them, and then I'll answer a few questions." He sat down cross-legged, waiting.

Draco had never taken potions so quickly in his life. He gulped them down, the vials vanishing as soon as they were empty. "Answer," he demanded.

"What do you want to know?"

"What day is it, today?"

"Wednesday."

Draco looked around for something to throw at Potter. He didn't even have a pillow. "Don't try and be smart, Potter. It doesn't suit you."

Potter grinned. "It's August the fourth. The year is 2010."

Draco frowned, trying to assimilate the information as quickly as possible without freaking out over the twelve year gap in his memory. "You're a Healer now?"

"Yes."

"How did that happen?"

"Next question." Potter was smiling, but those eyes...

"What about Weasley and Granger?"

"You already know about Hermione." Draco nodded. "Ron's dead."

"...How?"

"Next question."

Draco stood up, folded his arms. "How long has he been dead?"

"Two years."

"You said I've been in here for six."

"Yes."

"So I can't have had anything to do with Weasley's death, right?" Draco didn't wait for an answer. "Why won't you tell me?"

Potter choked on a laugh. "You've certainly come back fighting this time," he mused, scribbling something on his notes. "You're putting things together very quickly, and retaining memories well enough to recall them."

Draco was momentarily distracted. "That's a good thing?"

"Maybe. Until you have your next relapse – if you have one – I won't know." Potter ran a hand through his hair, a habit he had kept since school. "Ron's death is very painful to talk about. I'd rather not answer it."

"Tough." Draco loomed over Potter. "I want to know."

Potter took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes. "Ron left the Aurory the same time I did. He went to work with George in the shop–"

"What happened to Fred?"

"He was killed in the Battle of Hogwarts."

Draco was stunned. He had two days' worth of memories, and already two people were dead. _Three_ , he reminded himself; he'd grieve for Father later, when he knew more.

"They opened a branch in Hogsmeade. Ron was there one day when a group of kids decided to play a prank. They planted things – Dungbombs, fireworks, other explosives – all over the shop and spelled them to go off at the same time. They said afterwards that they thought it would just cover people with gunk." Potter was staring at his clipboard like it was personally responsible.

"Most of the third and fourth years were in that shop when it happened. Ron was in his office on the top floor. He's never lost his Auror reflexes, you know – he shielded every single kid in that shop, but he couldn't protect himself as well, not in time. The shop caught fire and, well, there are a lot of volatile chemicals there. They heard the explosion up in Hogwarts." Potter was quiet, his voice pained. "He was babysitting my eldest that day. He saved James' life."

Draco was surprised to find a lump in his throat. It took him a few tries to come out with a response that didn't feel insulting to Weasley's memory.

"It sounds like he saved a lot of lives." Draco studied his feet. "For what itís worth, I'm sorry."

Potter blinked, brought himself back to the _here and now_. "Thank you."

"So," Draco said, casting around for another question, "do I have kids?"

"Next."

"Oh, come on! That one's easy, a yes or no. I realise you'd probably still manage to get a 'T' on a fifty-fifty, of course."

"You're more sarcastic than usual," Potter said, making a note. "So far, this is quite promising. That's why I won't say much about your family, whether you have any or not – the subject has caused relapses in the past."

"I see." Draco's brow furrowed as he filed that piece of information away to digest later. "Mother?"

"She's fine." Potter smiled. "Narcissa's a good friend, actually. I testified on her behalf after the Battle of Hogwarts. Managed to keep the three of you out of Azkaban, too. I had tea with her on Monday."

Draco felt a weight fall off him. Mother was fine; she was alive and well, and safe.

His voice turned cold. "Bellatrix?"

"Molly Weasley killed her twelve years ago. You danced on her grave. It was quite the sight, especially since Rita Skeeter was having lunch nearby. The _Prophet_ ran a full two page spread on it."

The bitch was dead. Draco felt a chill run through him.

"You're shivering," Potter commented. "The room isn't cold, Draco. It's designed to maintain a constant temperature regardless of the conditions outside."

"I want to lie down, please." Draco turned his back on Potter, lay down facing the wall. He said nothing, felt nothing, thought nothing until he heard the door lock and vanish as the damned Healer left, and then he cried.


	3. Chapter 3

"Potter!"

Draco had been shouting for the past five minutes. At least, he thought so; there was no way of telling the time in here, and the room didn't have any windows. It was always so bright.

"POTTER!"

The door appeared and Harry Potter tumbled through, glasses askew and hair even worse than normal.

"Did I wake you?" Draco asked insincerely.

"Not only me," grumbled Potter. "Ginny is _not_ happy; it took ages to get Lily off to sleep."

Draco stared. "Did you seriously name your kids _James_ and _Lily_?" he asked, putting twelve years of unused scorn into his voice.

Potter turned an interesting shade of red. "Shut up," he mumbled.

"You did!" Draco momentarily forgot why he had beckoned Potter in light of this potential for mockery. "At least it'll save on the wedding costs, and if you're married to Weaselette then they're Pure enough for a bit of inbreeding to be overlooked."

"Interesting." Potter was struggling to keep his cool. "I haven't wanted to hex you in years."

"I'm delighted. Tell me, are there any other Potter-spawn wandering around?"

"If you mean to ask if I have any more children, Draco, then yes, I do. I have another son."

Draco smirked. "And what name did you grace him with?"

Potter went even redder. "Al," he said.

"'Al'?" His voice was dripping with scorn.

"Albus Severus," Potter mumbled.

Draco's laughter could be heard all through the Janus Thickey Ward, disturbing Gilderoy Lockhart from where he was signing autographs in his sleep.

"Shut it, Draco. You didn't shout St Mungo's down just to make fun of my kids' names. What do you want?"

"I want my wand."

"No. Good night." Potter turned to leave. Draco caught his arm.

"Why not?"

Potter gave him a long stare. "You don't have a wand," he said at last. "It broke before you came here, and you hadn't had a chance to replace it."

Once again, Draco felt like there was more to the story than he was being told. Potter's face was determined and he knew he wouldn't get anywhere.

"Will you tell me how?" he asked, forcing himself to stay calm.

Potter opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. A sly look came over his face. "I will... _if_ you tell me why you scream in your sleep."

"Next question."

Potter looked alarmed. "You mean you really remember?"

"Next question."

"But Draco, this is– I mean, this is the first time you've ever had any memories after a relapse, ever, since the incident that brought you here! It could be vital to your recovery!" Potter dropped his clipboard in his excitement.

"What would help in my recovery is _giving me my fucking wand_."

Potter retrieved the damned board. "That's impossible, Draco. No resident of the Janus Thickey Ward is entitled to a wand until their successful discharge. That's not just me saying it, either – that's one of the strictest regulations here."

"Damn." Draco sat back on the bed, his head in his hands. "I don't suppose you'd let me borrow yours?"

"When you recover and walk out of here, Draco, I'll buy you a new wand myself." Potter was starting to sound optimistic that such a thing could happen. Draco wanted to get better – if he was really as ill as Potter claimed, and this wasn't all an elaborate hoax to fuck with his mind. A part of him, the part that was usually kept bound and gagged in case he developed a conscience, believed Potter was right.

He'd die before he admitted it. Twelve years might have passed, more for all he knew, but he was Draco Malfoy, and he would be damned if he gave any credit to Harry Bloody Potter.

"Why do you want a wand so badly, Draco?" There he went, Saint Potter and his psycho-babble, probably trying to link his desire for his _wand_ – a basic Wizarding right! – to his memory problems.

"Because I've been dying to hex you since I woke up yesterday, and I can't take it any longer." Draco retreated to the bed, brought his knees up to his chest. He couldn't believe how vulnerable he felt. _It's just a stick,_ he told himself. _Not like it's been any help in the past. Every time I've needed it..._

"Is there something I can do for you, Draco?" Potter's concerned tones broke that train of thought before it derailed itself.

"Fix the lights," he said gruffly. "It's too _white_ in here. How's a man supposed to sleep with no natural light and the walls practically glowing?"

Potter pursed his lips, glanced through several sheets of parchment on the damned board. "I'm not sure that would be such a good idea," he mused. "The lights here were tied to the ones out on the Ward up until a few years ago."

"Congratulations. That means absolutely nothing to me."

Potter, infuriatingly, continued as if Draco hadn't spoken. "They would automatically go dim at night. Everything was fine until–"

"Let me guess." Draco buried his face in his knees. "Until I relapsed?"

"No, actually. You had a nightmare. When one of the other Healers came to check on you, you didn't recognise her and attacked her." Potter hugged his clipboard. "All you would say about it afterwards was that the darkness brought on the nightmare. You relapsed a few weeks later."

Draco lifted his head enough that he could see Potter through the curtain of blonde hair he'd acquired. "And the Healer?"

"She transferred to a different ward. You didn't kill her, if that's what you mean. She was badly frightened and received injuries to her throat. A few potions sorted her out, physically."

Draco sagged in relief, closing his eyes against tears. When he opened them, Potter was watching him curiously.

"You're not a killer, Draco," he said softly. "In fact, even during the war, nobody ever saw you do much. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

* * *

"Aunt Bella, please!"

"Hush. It's only a Muggle, dear Draco. Look! I even gagged her and tied her up for you. All you have to do is say the words."

"I– I don't know if–"

"Dear, darling Draco." She planted a kiss on his cheek, her hand guiding his wand. "You're so delightfully angry of late. Let this filthy Muggle beast take your hatred and your pain. It will feel good, I promise." Her hand was slipping inside his trousers. "She doesn't deserve to live."

"Please, don't do this." It was the first time he'd been able to say that and it felt good to finally let the words out. "Stop it."

It didn't matter.

"Think of how pleased the Dark Lord will be," she crooned. "I know you hate me, Draco. You _need_ hate. Soon, you will be strong enough to do this without me." How could she make it sound like she was doing him a favour–?! "Look," she added, nestling up to him, "she even looks like Potter's Mudblood."

The Muggle was awake, writhing to escape her bonds, terrified. At least _she_ had an out. _She_ could expect a swift death. He was stuck here, trying to keep his family safe for one more day, trying to avoid his demented aunt, and fated to spend the rest of his miserable existence serving the Dark Lord in a world that would be even more twisted than this one was turning out to be–

_"Avada Kedavra."_ Green light shot from his wand and extinguished the Muggle's life. Draco shuddered as he came in his aunt's hands.

"Well done," she whispered. 

For the rest of the week, she left him alone.

* * *

"Go away, Potter." Draco lay down on his bed. "Go back to your wife and kids, and fix the fucking lights on your way out."

Potter whispered a spell and the room dimmed to a more acceptable level. Draco closed his eyes and counted under his breath. It took four minutes before Potter finally left. This time he cried quietly, stuffing his fist in his mouth to muffle his screams.

* * *

He dozed fitfully, trying not to fall asleep in case he dreamed again.

"She's dead," he whispered, not too loud in case Potter had someone monitoring his room. "She can't hurt you."

He repeated this like a mantra, eyes closing slowly.

"Shit!" Draco caught sight of his shadow, saw a hand on his arm, and nearly fell off the bed as he scrambled away from it. "What the fuck–" Oh. The stupid hospital robe, cheap and thinner than paper, had gathered at the top of his arm. He smoothed it down, laughing nervously.

"She's dead," he said again, louder. The words hung in the still air, mocking him. "She's dead and I'm not."

It didn't feel like much of a victory. She was dead, and he had spent half of the years since locked away in St Mungo's with only Potter for company.

If anything, it felt like she'd won.

Had he _really_ danced on her grave? Had he been drunk? It certainly sounded like something he'd do, if he was willing to admit it, and if he couldn't confess it to himself then who else was there? Draco was surprised she even had a grave – although since it had given him the opportunity to celebrate that the mad bitch was dead, he supposed it had its uses.

He made a mental note to ask Potter what had happened to Fenrir Greyback.

And for a copy of that two page spread in the _Prophet_ , why the hell not.

This time, he lay facing the wall that concealed the door. His shadow wasn't as clearly defined simply by virtue of the wall being further away. Draco took a moment to smooth down his robe before closing his eyes again. Maybe Potter could bring him something decent to wear. The robe was white and it couldn't look good with his skin and hair.

He was alive, and this time, it seemed like he actually remembered a lot more than he ever had before.

Was that even a good thing? He envied the other versions of him if it was true. They hadn't been able to remember everything and, even better, they had constantly annoyed Potter.

Who wasn't as annoying as Draco remembered, not that his memories could be truly relied on.

Damn, he needed a shave, and a shower, and time to think.

_Not_ time to think. He turned over, saw the shadows rise, screamed before he realised it was just his knee.

Maybe Potter had had a point about the lights.

* * *

When Potter arrived, bearing food, _actual_ food rather than the St Mungo's shit that usually appeared at set times of day, Draco was ready to tear the walls down for some human contact. Potter took one look at him and, without saying anything, waved his wand.

"The lights won't change again." He set down a tray of food – oh god, there was actual bacon and eggs on there. Draco was nearly salivating. "Potions first, please."

"Denying food to a starving man?"

"You wouldn't starve if you ate the food we send."

"That's not actual food, Potter. My current theory is that you charm the vomit from the other words to make it a prettier colour and feed it to us. Or it's how you dispose of patients who ask too many questions. Either way, it is not food." Draco tipped the potions down his throat without even asking what they were. He knew that his words were tumbling out before he could censor them, each right on the tail of its predecessor so that they jumbled together in a rapid string of nonsense. Potter, damn him, made a note on his clipboard.

"Didn't sleep?" he asked, sliding the tray across to Draco.

"Save your questions." Draco waved a fork threateningly. "Don't make me stab you with this."

"It's plastic, Draco."

"It'll sting like a bitch, and I'll aim for your eyes. Shut the fuck up and let me eat."

Much to his amazement, and his pleasure, Potter did just that. Draco sat cross-legged on the floor, devouring the contents of the plate, while Potty did things like change the bedding and cast some basic cleaning spells. He was going to be sick if he didn't slow down, but the food tasted so good.

"Be careful," Potter warned, crouching down next to him. "You don't want to make yourself sick."

"I do," Draco snapped back, the effect spoiled by the fact his mouth was full. He swallowed. "I want to eat myself sick, Potter, and then I want to watch a game of Quidditch, shag some of the cheerleaders and _maybe_ the players if they're female and fit, shop until I empty my Gringotts vault, and finally I want to get some answers to fill in the blank space that _you_ ," he gestured with the fork again, showering his robes with scrambled egg, "say makes up the past _twelve years_ of my life." He glowered as Potter hit him with a Cleaning Charm. "Mostly I just want to get out of here."

"That's a very encouraging sign. You're actually more like _you_ than I've ever seen." Potter wore a half-smile. "That doesn't make much sense, does it?"

"You should be used to not making sense by now, Potter." Draco set down the plastic cutlery with the same neatness his mother had drilled into him. It was less satisfying when they didn't give the gentle _clink_ of good quality silverware on a fine plate.

Potter sent the plate away to Merlin-knew-where. "Didn't sleep?" he asked again.

"What do you think?"

"I think you need to get some rest." Potter stood. "I'll do my rounds and come back this afternoon. If you hold your breakfast down, I'll sneak you in something decent for lunch."

"Sneak it in?" Draco looked down to where the plate had been. "What was the occasion for all this, then?"

Potter shrugged. "I want you to recover," he said simply. "Yesterday gave me hope that one day, it might be possible. If that isn't worth celebrating, then what is?"

The worst thing was, Potter really, truly meant it.

_Fucking Gryffindors._

"Get some rest, Draco. I'll pop back later."

"Please–" The word escaped before he could clamp his lips shut. Potter, damn him, heard.

"Yes?"

Now he _had_ to ask.

"Stay with me." Draco's admission was rewarded by Potter's jaw dropping. If he hadn't been deadly serious, he would have laughed.

"Please, Potter. Stay with me until I fall asleep."

Potter set down the clipboard. "Why?"

_Because you're one of the bravest people I know. Because most people in my life have let me down and it seems like you haven't given up on me in years, even when it seems hopeless, if you're telling me the truth. Because you survived the Killing Curse_ twice. _Because you had the balls to walk up to the Dark Lord and let him kill you, and_ still _come back to take him down._ Draco wasn't sure where some of these memories were coming from, fragmented though they were. _Because I reckon you could take Bellatrix Lestrange without batting an eyelid, not to mention fucking Fenrir. Because you'll keep me safe._

_Because I don't want to be alone._

"Just because."

"Oh, well, if _that's_ the reason why." Potter tried to smirk; it came out as a big grin. "Lie down, Draco. I'll stay for now. Don't make a habit of it, okay?"

For all Draco tried, he couldn't come up with a sarcastic comment. He was too relieved, too grateful. He lay down obediently, facing the door. Potter came and perched on the edge of his bed, near to his feet. After a moment, he drew his wand and rested it lightly on his knee. Draco felt tears pricking the corners of his eyes again.

"Thanks, Potter," he whispered, closing his eyes. When he fell asleep, he didn't dream.


	4. Chapter 4

"So what's Mrs Potter doing with her time?"

"She went into Quidditch after school. Signed with the Holyhead Harpies; captained them for the last three years. She's just retired, but the _Prophet_ has offered her a position as Quidditch correspondent which I think she'll take."

"Does Granger have any kids?"

"She's Weasley, and yes. Rose and Hugo."

"How old are they?"

"Not old enough to remember him."

"That's sad. What about the rest of the people from school?"

"Luna's married to Rolf Scamander. They travel all over the world. Neville teaches Herbology; he took over from Professor Sprout. He's married to Hannah Abbott, I don't know if you'd remember her. Dean Thomas is in the Aurory with Seamus. Goyle is in Azkaban – not from the War; he was released for that, but got busted as part of a drugs ring a couple of months ago. Pansy Parkinson is now Pansy Zabini, and Blaise is teaching Potions."

Draco tensed. "And... Severus?"

Potter closed his eyes. "He died in the Final Battle. He's a hero. Order of Merlin, First Class. He's got a portrait in Headmistress McGonagall's office, but I haven't been to see it."

"Can't, or won't?"

Potter cracked one eye open. "Since when are _you_ my therapist?"

Draco gently set aside his sadness; a part of him, long buried, remembered about Severus Snape. The acute ache was quickly easing. He wondered how many times he had grieved for his godfather. "Don't worry, Potter. Once I have the next relapse, I won't remember."

Potter looked worried. "I hope we don't have another one."

"Me too, actually."

"Shut up." Potter was grinning. It felt odd to be sitting there like old school friends with Harry Potter, reminiscing about faces he couldn't remember or tried to forget. Draco certainly didn't _feel_ like a patient.

"Can I get some decent clothes?"

"No." Potter looked away. "Hospital regulations."

Draco growled. "St Mungo's can bite my arse," he muttered. "What about a shower, Potter? Am I allowed to clean myself, or do I have to suffer your badly cast Cleaning Charms for the rest of my life?"

Potter didn't even consult the clipboard this time. "If you continue to be stable, I can arrange a shower for next week."

"Thank Merlin." Draco hadn't expected to win even that small concession. "Can I have a shave?"

"This is the Janus Thickey Ward, and you want a sharp object?"

"I shave with my _wand_ , Potter, unlike most idiots."

"So you want a wand?" Potter waited until Draco groaned. "What's the big deal about having a shave, anyway?"

Draco ran his fingers over his uneven beard. "Look at me," he said. "I look a mess. My hair needs a cut, too; it's almost as long as Father's. Is it really so unusual for me to want to look good, Potter?"

"Yes."

"Have you _met_ me?"

Potter ran a hand through his hair. That, Draco was quickly learning, meant he was about to say something awkward.

"For three years running, we had to force you to keep clean and presentable. In the end, we started using the charms, and every now and then someone would come in to sort your hair out. You haven't been this keen to clean up in years."

"Years?" Draco frowned. "Potter... Just how ill am I?"

Potter shrugged. "Sometimes after a relapse, you bounce back quickly; other times, you act like a robot."

"Robot?"

"Muggle thing. It means you show no human interests, no real emotions; you go through the motions until the next relapse." Potter was fiddling with his quill. "We don't think this is terminal, if that's what you're wondering."

That wasn't really an answer. "Potter, has your ability to answer a question deteriorated even more since school? Severus would have taken points for that."

"And given a detention." Potter had the nerve to give a misty-eyed smile. What right did _he_ have to miss Severus Snape? They'd spent six years despising each other. Draco felt angry again.

_Kill him, darling Draco. One spell and it'll all be over._

Draco leapt off the bed. He ignored Potter, looked all around for the source of the demon voice that had whispered inside his skull; realised it was his own memories. She'd been dead twelve years and he still wasn't safe.

"Draco, what's wrong?"

He started to pace. "Potter, I want you to get the best people in the world here. They are going to find out what is wrong with me and _fix it_. I need to go home. I need to see Mother." _I need to see with my own eyes that the bitch is dead._

Potter was staring at him, an odd expression on his face.

Draco stopped his pacing to glare at him. "What?"

Potter's hand lifted, like he was going to touch his hair, then dropped.

"We already know what's wrong with you, Draco. What we don't know is why you did it, and until we find that out, no amount of treatment is going to cure you."

His blood ran cold. "What _I_ did?" He grabbed Potter by the collar of his stupid Healer robes. "What did I do, Potter?"

"I'm not allowed to–"

"WHAT DID I DO?" He started to shake Potter. "What the _fuck_ did I do that put me in St Mungo's for _six fucking years?_ If you don't tell me now, then so help me, I'll–"

_Kill him, Draco!_

He dropped Potter like he was on fire, or covered in shit, even going so far as to wipe his hands on his own miserable robe. Potter was sprawled on the floor, adjusting his glasses. He looked at Draco as if he'd never seen him before. They both became aware of an alarm, ringing somewhere outside the room.

"Tell me," Draco whispered. "Please."

Potter conjured his Patronus. "Everything's fine," he said to it. "Cancel the alarm." The stag bounded through the walls with a freedom Draco could only envy. Potter shook his head.

"I don't want you to relapse, Draco."

"I need to know. If you come in here tomorrow and I've forgotten it all, you can say 'I told you so', and I'll have the last laugh because I won't remember what you told me in the first place."

Potter started to laugh. "That's not the most convincing argument I've ever heard. You realise that As– that people will kill me if I tell you?"

"Astoria?"

"Damn." Potter shook his head. "I can't believe you picked up on that one. Can't believe I let it slip." He looked like he was contemplating hitting his head against his clipboard. He looked tired, and worried, more than a Healer should be about a patient.

"I remember Astoria." Draco decided to throw him a lifeline – give a bit, get a lot, it had been his motto for a long time. "I was considering courting her in seventh year."

Potter's head whipped around sharply. "That was _after_ the day at Malfoy Manor." Draco nodded. "You remember?"

"Bits and pieces."

The quill was scratching across the parchment. "This is a major breakthrough, Draco! We have to review what happened up until your last seizure, maybe something triggered a memory. I'll have to arrange some more scans, and–"

"Harry." The use of his first name had the Boy-Who-Lived shutting up successfully. "Did I marry Astoria?"

Potter was fidgeting awkwardly. _He wants to tell me,_ Draco realised.

"There are... things I think I remember, Harry. Little memories. I don't know if they're real or if I'm dreaming. That's why I haven't said anything over the past few days – I mean, how do I know if they really are my memories, or if they're a side-effect of all the crap you've got me taking?" Draco picked up a strand of hair, examined the split-ends with a critical eye. "If I tell you something, will you check it out for me?"

"What do you mean?"

* * *

The battle wasn't what Draco had imagined it would be. When he was younger, he'd dreamed of the forces of the Dark Lord amassing, lining up before the Order of the Phoenix, and watching as the Order surrendered. After joining the Death Eaters, he'd had visions of them all casting Unforgiveables, the Order dropping like flies. Once he'd started receiving Aunt Bella's attention, he'd longed for the Order to fly in, probably on broomsticks but ideally on dragons or something else fucking awesome, incinerating the Death Eaters in a heartbeat. The mental image of Bellatrix being eaten by a dragon was enough to keep him gritting his teeth so that she couldn't hear him scream.

It was anticlimactic, and messy, and confusing. Even hiding out in the Room of Requirement hadn't saved him, thanks to Potter and his sidekicks. There was no escape. Mother and Father had left after the Dark Lord had declared victory. Draco hadn't been able to go with them, not really. He couldn't believe Potter had failed.

And then, of course, Potter had woken up. Shaken off a second Killing Curse like it was a Tickling Charm, or so he'd heard. He didn't know who else was alive or dead because Mother had made him promise to keep away from the fighting. He was by the greenhouses, curled up between some ferns, waiting for the end and praying it was the right one.

A branch broke as someone passed by his hiding place. He tensed.

Someone sniffed. Another crunch came as twigs were crushed beneath a heavy boot.

"Ahh..." 

Draco's blood turned to ice. He knew that voice. 

"I don't have time to play now, Malfoy."

"Fenrir." Damn, he'd heard Weasley had taken him down. Guess that wasn't the same as killed. "Fuck off."

"Watch what you're saying, you little runt, or I'll forget my promise. I reckon you'd look a damn sight better with a bit more fur, know what I'm saying?" He was right next to the ferns. Draco could hear them rustling as he hunted.

 _"You have enough hate for a thousand Unforgivables, Draco. Use it in service of the Dark Lord, and he will make you great."_ Her words, silken and deadly in his ear, came flooding back.

Draco was glad he'd taken a wand off a corpse. His aim was steady, and when Fenrir Greyback parted the ferns he met a jet of green light that sent him straight to hell.

* * *

"During the Final Battle, Greyback disappeared, right?"

"How do you know that?" Potter was starting to look confused again.

"Weasley and Longbottom knocked him out in the Great Hall. When you all started counting corpses, his wasn't there. I know that because I killed him, right by Greenhouse Four, and transfigured his corpse into one of those Muggle gnomes that piss the real ones off so much. I never told anyone, so it should still be there." His fingernails needed a clean and a cut. He bit half of one off and spat it in the corner. "If you find him, then I know these are my memories." _Merlin help me, please don't let them be real. Please just let me be crazy._

Potter, thank Merlin, didn't ask any more questions. "I'll finish my rounds, and then I'll go to Hogwarts. AndÖ Draco?" His hand was on the door. "You _did_ marry Astoria. If what you've just told me is true, I'll speak to her and Narcissa about what I can tell you."

"You'd do that for me?"

Potter hesitated for too long.

"We all want you to get better. This may be your chance."

* * *

When Potter came back, he'd aged a little bit more.

"You were right," he said in a monotone. He didn't have his clipboard. "I found the gnome and passed it to the Aurors. They reversed the transfiguration and formally identified the corpse. It was Greyback." Potter sank down against the wall. "They want to give you a reward and an Order of Merlin, Third Class."

Draco laughed incredulously. "Really?"

Potter closed his eyes, nodded. His wand was dangling from his fingertips, so tempting.

"You look like the world is ending, Potty. I finally remembered something! Shouldn't there be a parade of pretty nurses celebrating right now?"

Potter's lips twitched as he checked his laughter. "You're a married man, Draco."

"Not as far as I can remember, and you know what they say: what happens on the Janus Thickey Ward stays on the Janus Thickey Ward – because the patients never have the chance to tell anyone about it." Draco crossed over and sat down next to Potter. "Lighten up, will you?"

"I'm sorry. It's just been a bit of a weird day." Potter rubbed the back of his hand. "I thought everything from the war was over." _I thought I was over it._ It didn't need to be said.

Draco cleared his throat loudly. "Third Class? Really?" Potter nodded. "Is that _all_? What did you get for killing the Dark Lord, a pat on the back?" He felt gratified when Potter laughed. What he _really_ wanted to know was, had Potter spoken to Mother? To Astoria? It was odd to think of her as his wife, and yet, the mention of her name brought a warm feeling that definitely wasn't heartburn, an anticipation and desperation to see her.

"I stopped by the Manor on my way back." Shit, was Potter a Legilimens now? He looked over; no, Potter was still miles away. "They were pleased to hear you were responding well."

"And?" Draco could barely contain his nerves.

"Here." Potter held out a cup of coffee – Merlin's beard, it was the real stuff, freshly ground and black, just the way he loved it. The fragrance filled the room and brought with it dozens of memories, most old but some new – holding Mother while she cried into her cup after Father's death – sharing some with Blaise and Theo the night before the wedding and smirking as they failed to realise he had spiked theirs – looking out over the grounds of the Manor, drinking the first cup of the day, and feeling at peace.

Oh god, he was nearly crying from the smell of the fucking _coffee_.

"Narcissa insisted," Potter said, waiting patiently for him to accept the cup.

Draco took it. He couldn't bring himself to drink it. "It smells like home," he admitted, wondering at how easily he confided in Potter. "I remember some more pieces. Little ones, like the ones around the edge. Not quite filling in the picture, if you get me." He elbowed Potter in the ribs, an unsubtle hint.

Potter took it. "They spoke to the Chief Mediwizard and I have been given authority – reluctant authority, I have to say – to answer what I can."

"Isn't that a bit weird?"

"Everything about your treatment is weird. We ran through all the standards years ago. Now, we just keep trying things, and if something works, we stick with it. If you have a relapse in the next few weeks, there wouldn't be enough gold in Gringotts to get me authority this early in your treatment again." Potter was scratching the back of his hand. Draco could see faint scarring there. Umbridge, he recalled, pleased at how quickly the memory came.

Potter was watching him, green eyes smiling even though his face was trying to stay serious. "Ask away, Draco. I'll answer."

Draco stared at the ceiling, stretching his legs out. Potter's were longer, he noted.

"Tell me what's happening to me, Potter. Why am I here?"

"I'm a Healer, Draco. I'm not too great on the existential crises."

Draco elbowed him again. "Did you learn that one from Granger?" Potter snickered and turned red. Yes, Draco realised, and joined in laughing at him.

"Don't be an arse, Potter. Tell me why I'm languishing in St Mungo's. Tell me what happened to me. What the incident was."

"If you're sure." Potter looked up at the ceiling. "After the war, you started to suffer blackouts. Never for very long, and they didn't affect your memory at first – you were usually disoriented, confused, but you became lucid quickly.

"They got worse after Lucius died. You would black out for days at a time, and then you'd forget what had happened. They became more frequent." Potter was twirling his wand, concentrating on it and not on Draco. "You were very temperamental – one moment you'd be fine, the next you'd be shouting like a madman. You had panic attacks. We started treating you for PTSD – Post Traumatic Stress Disorder," he clarified at Draco's blank look. "That was when you were still an outpatient here. You didn't respond to treatment, and your mental health was deteriorating quickly. You started to have magical outbursts whenever you blacked out."

Potter paused for too long. 

"Then?" Draco urged, clinging on to every word.

"Astoria says she doesn't blame you," Potter said gently.


	5. Chapter 5

Draco wiped his brow. It had been hard work, but the old house had never looked better. He'd repainted every inch by hand. Astoria had commented that everyone could tell who charmed their walls, and that would never do. This room was a pale yellow. It faced east, and practically glowed with warmth and light in the mornings. He'd planted some flowers in the window box. It was ready.

"Oh, Draco, it looks wonderful." Astoria, elegant as ever, stood in the doorway. Draco took in her soft lips, the way her chestnut hair was so beautifully styled, the light in her eyes, and fell in love all over again.

"It's nothing next to you," he said, jumping down off the ladder and taking her in his arms. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine. Daphne sends her regards and says she will come and stay with us over the summer."

"Wonderful." Draco kissed her, held her as close as he could. "Shall we go for a walk, love? The exercise will do us both good."

"Oh, Draco! You've just reminded me. I have something to show you." She caught his hands, started to tow him from the room with the energy of a woman half her age – not that she was old; far from it. "Come on, darling. The house-elves can clean up after you."

Draco laughed and allowed himself to be pulled through the long halls of the Manor and out into the fresh air. He had to take a moment when a peahen crossed his path, stepping with grace and dignity. Much like Mother, without Father. When Astoria linked her arm through his, he let her guide his path.

"Close your eyes," she said, tracing her finger over them.

"How old are we, Astoria?"

"You're never too old for a surprise, Draco. Close them." His eyes shut themselves at her imperious tone, and he chuckled as she led him on a winding path. At last they stopped and he heard her dancing around excitedly.

"Open your eyes!" she announced grandly. He opened them to find himself in the rose gardens.

"Surprise!" she said as he turned, taking in the beautiful flowers through horrified eyes. "They caught fire after the Battle of Hogwarts... Your mother said how much you loved these gardens as a child, and I thought it would be nice to restore them... Draco?" He realised that he hadn't said anything. She was biting her lower lip nervously. 

"They're lovely," he said hoarsely.

Astoria was too perceptive. Her face fell. "I'm sorry, love. I thought it would be a pleasant surprise. I didn't mean to upset you."

"It's not you," he rushed to assure her. "I promise, Astoria, you could never upset me. The gardens bring back a lot of memories for me, that's all."

She touched his arm gently. "Of Lucius?"

"No." That night flooded back, the first of many, all here, despoiling the beauty of the flowers he used to treasure. He'd burned it down himself and still hadn't felt better. He could hear her laughter, taste his own blood, he could smell jasmine amongst the roses–

When he came to, Astoria was lying a few feet away on the grass. She was still – too still.

"Astoria?" He scrambled to his feet, panic slicing through the confused haze that fogged his mind. "Tori? Wake up, please!" She didn't stir as he gathered her in his arms, but she was breathing, she was alive.

Shit, she was bleeding.

"Mother!" Draco screamed, clutching her to him. "Mother! Anyone! Please, help her!" His heart broke as he pressed his face into her hair. "Please, love, please be okay. Hold on. Please, please, please..."

He was by her bedside in St Mungo's when she woke.

"Draco?" She reached for his hand sleepily. "What happened?"

Draco couldn't speak, hadn't been able to utter a word since she'd been brought in. Because he was waiting for it, he saw the exact moment when she realised, and her world ended.

"No!" Her hand flew to her stomach. "Draco – the baby – please, tell me she's fine, tell me they saved her!" She was squeezing her hand so tightly that he couldn't feel his fingers. _"Tell me they saved her!"_

He started to cry.

* * *

Tears were streaming down his face. Potter was crying, too.

"You didn't speak a word until after the baby was buried," he said. "You took Astoria home, waited until she fell asleep, and then you cast the Killing Curse on yourself."

* * *

God, why had he thought he needed to know this? It was better to have forgotten, better not to feel the heartache at knowing he had killed his daughter but a few weeks before she would have been in his arms. Better death than knowing _this_. He leaned against Potter, shaking, and barely noticed when Potter put an arm around him. He buried his face in the Healer robes and wanted to die all over again.

"There's a good chance she would have died anyway," Potter said softly. "Post-mortem tests showed she had a congenital heart defect, something the Healer supervising Astoria's care had failed to pick up. It needed to be corrected earlier in the pregnancy to improve her chances of survival. Poppy Pomfrey found it. She said there was a ninety-four percent chance that the baby would have died within a few weeks anyway."

"Potter." Draco's voice was hoarse, ragged. "If you think that telling me my daughter only had a six percent chance of living will make me feel better, I will kill you."

"I didn't mean it like that."

He leaped to his feet. "Six percent is still a chance!" The words echoed. "I _remember_ , Potter, I remember every single detail about that day, thanks to you, and I know that I killed her! I took that chance away! I never had the chance to hold her, to kiss her and tell her I loved her, to tell her stories and hold her when she cried, and you sit there, with your three children, and your life, and tell me she _might_ have died anyway?!"

Potter had the decency not to answer. Draco glared at him, hated him, wanted to reach out and–

_–kill him, Draco, everything will be all right once you do–_

"Fuck you," he said aloud, both to Potter and to the voice.

The silence that followed was driving him crazy.

"Her name was Artemis," he said.

Potter nodded. "Artemis Polaris Malfoy. A goddess, and the one of the brightest stars in the sky."

"My guiding light." Draco sat back down. "Why didn't I die, Harry? I wanted to. Those curses are all about intent, and I wanted to die."

"I asked an Unspeakable about that, when I started working here."

"And?"

Draco knew the answer before Potter opened his mouth. "I'd tell you, but then I'd have to Obliviate you," they chorused together. Potter looked embarrassed before his sense of humour made a recovery and he laughed.

The voice was worrying him.

"Why did you become a Healer, Potter?"

"Your mother saved my life at the Battle of Hogwarts."

Draco frowned. "What's that got to do with the price of potions?"

"I swore to myself that if I ever had the chance to repay her for taking that risk, I'd do it. Becoming a Healer to try and fix her only son seemed like a good opportunity."

"That's not what you told me the first time."

"Yeah, I know."

Draco found himself leaning in to the Healer again, his head on Potter's shoulder.

"Potter?"

"You know you can call me Harry, right?"

"Yeah, I know." He closed his eyes. "I don't want to leave."

Harry rested his head atop Draco's. "I know."

"I can't face Astoria."

"I know."

"I want to die."

"Why do you think we took everything out of here? During the first two years here, you tried to kill yourself on everything. You're only allowed basic clothing, and that's been charmed to disappear if you try anything funny with it."

"Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Sometimes, I can still hear Bellatrix Lestrange talking to me. Telling me to kill you."

* * *

Harry wasn't coming back.

It had been three weeks since he'd last seen Harry. Draco had been lying on the bed, facing the wall, since Harry had left. 

"You're deemed a danger to his person," the spotty Healer who had come with his next dose of potions had said. "He's not allowed in here."

"Is he okay?"

"I'm afraid I can't comment on personal details of my colleagues. Take your potions, please."

He hadn't taken them. In the end, he didn't even acknowledge them. They cast their spells, made their notes and left. His beard was getting itchy.

* * *

His head hurt and Bellatrix was standing in the corner.

The more he remembered, the more memories that drove him crazy, the clearer she became. No one else could see her; the Healers who came in every day paid her no more attention than – well, than they did Draco, come to that. They couldnít hear her whispers.

"Go away," he moaned, clutching his head. It hurt so much. "Leave me alone."

She didnít listen. Why would she start now?

Draco curled up and wished he could stop the relentless onslaught of memories before he got lost in them.

* * *

Merlin only knew what strings Harry had pulled, but it had resulted in him getting a shower. The last shower he remembered was nine years ago, when he'd gotten up in the morning and found the Golden Trio in his house later on. It felt amazing. He didn't even care that he wasn't allowed to be alone, that Harry was watching. The entire Ministry could be watching him, for all he cared.

Still, he was very aware of those green eyes on him. He didn't know if that amount of observation was necessary.

Draco lathered up the regulation sponge and started to wash his neck and torso, moaning softly when the water hit his aching muscles. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Harry shift in the chair, crossing his legs. His cheeks were a bit redder than the heat of the room allowed, and his eyes never blinked.

"Harry, I can't reach my back," he said softly. "Are you able to help me?"

"I can enchant the sponge," Harry said. Was his voice a little higher than usual? Draco hoped so. Ever since he'd woken up a few weeks ago, he hadn't been able to get Harry out of his head.

"It's not the same. Please, Harry. It won't take long, and the shower is really helping."

Harry wasn't a Gryffindor for nothing. Draco smiled like a kid in Honeydukes as Harry shed his Healer robes, leaving jeans and a t-shirt, and walked over to the shower. The outline of his erection wasn't obscured enough by the thick denim.

"Sponge," Harry said, his voice utterly professional. Draco glanced coyly back as he passed the sponge over his shoulder. Harry began to rub small circles along the top of his back, keeping a respectable distance.

"You don't need to be so nervous," Draco said, leaning in to Harry's touch. "We're both adults, Harry."

"I'm your Healer."

"There's more to that, and you know it." Draco was mere inches away from Harry, close enough for his hand to snake around and gently touch the front of Harry's jeans. He heard a sharp inhalation in his ear.

"It's not right," Harry murmured, but he didn't push Draco's hand away.

"Why not?"

"You don't know who you are. You don't remember your life. I'm here to help you get better, not to take advantage of you."

"You want to take advantage of me, don't you?" Draco's fingers found the zip, began to slowly pull it down. " _I_ want you to take advantage of me."

Harry stepped back, removed Draco's hand. When Draco turned, he saw sadness in those wonderful eyes. "You don't know what you want." Harry handed the sponge back. "Your back is done, Draco."

He finished his shower in silence. Harry spent the rest of it facing the door.

* * *

One of these days, he was going to give his wards teeth enough to keep Bellatrix Lestrange well away from him, Draco thought dully. He didn't even fight any more, didn't protest when she slipped into the bathroom during his shower, faithful werewolf in tow. She'd even brought Uncle Rodolphus, who was known to enjoy Muggle boys at the revels. Three against one. He'd used the few seconds before they took his wand to cast a Cushioning Charm on the base of the shower. With Fenrir at one end and Rodolphus the other, his knees were glad of the forethought.

"You know, Draco," she whispered as they took a moment to swap, "it's not your fault this is happening, my darling. You haven't done anything wrong. This war is being dragged on by Potter and his filthy friends. When he's dead, there will be dozens of Muggles and Mudbloods for us to use – for _you_ to use. You will be by the Dark Lord's side, and I will be with you."

_No,_ Draco thought dully, choking on Fenrir's deep thrusts, _it's your fault this is happening, because you're a fucking psychopath. It's my fault for not stopping you._

He wondered if she'd find someone else to torment if he went and killed Scarhead before the Dark Lord did.

Somehow, he doubted it.

* * *

Four weeks, and still no Harry.

The other Healers had given up talking to him.

His robes had disappeared when he'd tried to choke himself on them and they hadn't bothered replace them.

He sat staring at his hair, thinking.


	6. Chapter 6

"Good morning, Mister Malfoy." Healer Jones was an old man with little time for any of his patients, especially the ones who kept forgetting him. Draco didn't move from his stupor. He barely noticed whether anyone was there or not any more.

"I've brought someone with me today," Jones continued, spelling the potions into Draco's bloodstream. "Do you think you can get up and say hello?"

Draco blinked, nestled his face a little further into the lumpy, hospital regulation pillow.

"This is the Healer who will be taking over from me when I retire at the end of the month. Do you remember that I told you I would be leaving, Mister Malfoy?"

He pulled the thin quilt up until only the top of his head was showing.

"This is Healer Potter, Mister Malfoy. Harry, m'boy, why don't you say hello to our patient?"

The quilt inched down until one grey eye was showing. It saw Harry Potter, shuffling his feet and looking in desperate need of a hairbrush.

"Hi, Draco," he said, giving a quick wave.

Draco pulled the blanket back over his eyes. "Go away," he whispered.

"Don't look so despondent, Harry!" Healer Jones was making a fool of himself, fawning over the Boy-Who-Lived. "Mister Malfoy here hasn't said that much all year. You're already making progress!"

The door clicked shut. Draco didn't move.

"Draco..." Harry was still there. "I just want you to know that if you need anything, anything at all, I promise I'll do my best to help you out."

Draco rolled over, turning his back to Harry. After another minute, the door clicked shut again.

* * *

"I've got a problem, Harry."

Harry was busy running the weekly diagnostic tests, the tip of his wand flickering from colour to colour as he checked Draco's physical health. "What's the problem?" he asked, only half paying attention.

"The woman who came in last week to help me shave..."

"Apprentice Healer Brunswick, yes."

"She wasn't very good." It was a relief to say. "She was too nervous. I don't want her to come back."

Harry finished his tests, turned his full attention to what Draco was saying. "I can ask someone else to come and help you."

"I don't want another nervous trainee handling sharp objects near my face. It's uncomfortable." Draco leaned forward, studied Harry's chin. "Will you help me?"

Harry's cheeks turned red. "I don't think that would be a good idea."

"Please, Harry? You look like you shave with your wand, yes?" Harry nodded assent. "So do I. It's much better than the other way."

"I really shouldn't, Draco." Harry crossed the room to get away from him. "I can't."

"Why not?"

Harry's face was nearly glowing. Both men remembered the shower. "It's not proper," he said in a strangled voice.

"But I trust you."

There was the key to Harry Potter, the magic words that brought back the Gryffindor spirit. Trust. Harry fingered his wand, pretending to debate. They both knew he had already decided.

"Sit down." Draco obeyed, folding his hands neatly in his lap. Harry approached him warily, his face more like an Auror than a Healer in that moment. "If you try to take my wand, I'll make you regret it for the rest of your life," he warned, sitting next to Draco on the bed.

"I won't," Draco promised.

Harry took a deep breath before gently grasping Draco's chin. He brought the wand to hover over the stubble, murmuring the spell under his breath. It was a difficult spell to master, one of the main reasons why beards and Muggle style razors were so popular, but Harry's control was exquisite. His hand never trembled, the soft words never faltered, and the blonde hairs fell like rain into his lap. Draco tried to admire Harry's spell work and control, but it was very difficult to concentrate on anything but those green eyes, so close to his; Harry's breath, warm on his lips; how stunning he looked when he was so entirely focused.

When the wand stilled, green met unblinking grey.

"Draco..." His name was a prayer on Harry's lips and he knew how to answer. Draco closed the gap, captured Harry's lips – he'd _dreamed_ about tasting him, wondered just how soft his skin was, hoped he would be as passionate as he seemed. Harry started; Draco grasped his upper arms firmly, touched his tongue to Harry's lips and, glory be, Harry surrendered, opened his mouth and started to return the kiss with a blazing passion that he wanted to lose himself in forever.

When they parted for air, foreheads touching tenderly, Draco saw the moment when Harry came to his senses. Regret, fear, sorrow, love; they darted across his face, chased away by resignation. He wasn't surprised when Harry stood without a word, and left.

* * *

"Where am I?"

This wasn't home. It wasn't Hogwarts.

"Where the fuck am I?"

There. Someone standing there. He turned – Potter, talking to his Patronus – 

_You hate me, don't you, Draco?_

_It's all Potter's fault._

_The Dark Lord will revere you, place you above all others._

_It should be the Mudblood, not you._

_If Harry Potter comes back to Hogwarts, you must be the one to bring him down, my darling Draco._

Hands grabbed him, pulling him back. An image of his hands around Potter's throat was burned onto his retinas.

* * *

Draco hadn't been able to sleep in a month. He'd tried to find some way to measure the passing of time, and found nothing. It could have been minutes, or hours, or days since he'd last seen him. It was long enough that he was hallucinating again, because he'd swear that Bellatrix had been sitting opposite him for the last however-long, watching him.

"What do you want?" he said at last, tired of trying to fight her.

The hallucination said nothing. He could smell her perfume again.

"I won't hurt Harry."

Her laughter rang in his ears.

"Why won't you just _leave me alone_!" he screamed, leaping off his bed to claw at the apparition. His hands passed through it harmlessly.

He could hear her voice. 

_"I will never leave you."_

* * *

"Dear Draco."

He was sitting in Aunt Bella's presence and she hadn't yet taken his wand.

"The Dark Lord is pleased with you."

"That is good." It was definitely there, in his robes. Bellatrix was sitting opposite him, pouring tea. Two sugars. He checked it before drinking; it was clean.

"He was very happy with the efficient way you dealt with the Finch-Fletchley boy."

The tea was actually quite nice. "He was a Mudblood," Draco said, keeping his voice even, trying to keep silent the part of him that wanted to scream. Justin Finch-Fletchley was a nothing, a nobody; no threat to anyone, let alone the Dark Lord. He had refused to cower. Before he died, he'd spat at Draco and told him Harry Potter would win. Draco had buried him in the gardens after Bellatrix had gone.

He'd done it by hand. It felt like the right thing to do.

"You're a good boy, Draco. The Dark Lord wishes to give you a gift. Think about it." She touched his hand lightly. "I know the next time you see an Undesirable, you will know what to do.

"Yes, Aunt Bella."

He didn't start breathing again until the green light of the Floo had died down.

* * *

Draco had given up on killing himself. They'd cut his hair (it was surprisingly tasteful, so he wasn't complaining too much), trimmed his nails, and the wards were so strong that he still couldn't sleep, couldnít even render himself unconscious for a time. There was still no sign of Harry – no sign of anyone. Nothing but the shell of Draco Malfoy and twelve years of memories, still falling into place but all there, every one of them. If he closed his eyes he could hear her, see her, feel her. For the first time in his entire life, he finally understood.

It had never been about the abuse, not really. Oh, she'd enjoyed that; she was a psychotic bitch. Keeping Fenrir and Uncle Rodolphus occupied elsewhere probably played into some of her schemes. Making the Dark Lord happy was paramount, yes...

He was her Plan B. He was her revenge. She had tormented him, filled him with hate and anger, shattered his mind and pointed him in Harry's direction. How he'd fought the compulsion for so long was a miracle. Now that he knew everything, her voice was always with him.

_Potter was spotted today..._

_Your uncle wants to see you again._

_Fenrir sends his love. If we had left him with the Mudblood Granger, he wouldn't have time for this, would he?_

_You're such a good boy to take your punishment so well. Here, let me heal you. We don't want Father and Mother to see you've been naughty, do we?_

_Remember what I taught you, darling Draco. You have to mean it. Imagine that Muggle is me._

He'd never cast such a powerful Cruciatus before. In the dim light, the Muggle had had wild hair, crazed eyes, and _that_ laugh. She'd died, screaming.

Merlin, he'd love to be able to wash his hands, scrub them until the stench of death came off them.

No. That way lay madness. Draco rubbed his eyes. He needed sleep.

"Good afternoon, Draco."

The stress melted from his shoulders. Head in his hands, he hid a smile.

"Harry."

* * *

When he woke up, he was on the bed. He wore a thin hospital robe and was covered by an inadequate blanket. The room was bright, warm and pleasant. He sat up and saw Harry Potter sitting on a chair by his bedside.

Draco scooted back as far as he could, threw off the blanket and clutched at the edge of the bed. "Potter?" he asked in panicked tones. "What happened? Where am I? What's going on?"

Harry's face fell.

Draco couldn't stand it. He cracked up. When Harry realised that he'd been had, his expression was priceless, and Draco laughed all the harder.

"I'm glad you find it funny," Harry said sourly.

"That's the best bit of entertainment I've had in years, Harry."

"Your health is not something to joke about."

"If I can't, who will?" countered Draco, moving back to the edge of the bed and swinging his legs over. "Get me a decent cup of coffee; black, two sugars. I want to talk to you."

Harry frowned. "Are you sure you haven't had a relapse? You're acting very odd." He plucked a quill from his pocket. Draco clutched his hand before he could make any notes.

"I remember everything, Harry." He leaned forward and kissed his cheek. _"Everything."_

Harry turned pink. "I'll get you a coffee."

* * *

"So, Harry." Draco felt better than he had in years, and the coffee was only helping things. "Why did you become a Healer?"

Harry's face hadn't changed colour since Draco had kissed him. "I told you," he mumbled. "For Narcissa's sake."

Draco shot him a sharp look. "Why did you _stay_ a Healer?"

Harry was silent.

"I want to thank you, Harry. You never gave up on me like Healer Jones did. You have been so patient, so kind, so _noble_. Not many people can resist my advances," he added with a haughty toss of his head, earning him a smile from Harry.

"There are wards to prevent staff from taking advantage of patients."

"So? You're a powerful wizard who happens to be the Healer-in-charge. You could have worked around them, but you didn't." Draco emptied the last dregs of his coffee. "I think you might be the best friend I've ever had."

Harry looked pleased, and worried.

"I won't report you. You see, I love you, Harry. I love you as much as I love Astoria. You have become everything to me over these past six years." Draco paused. "You could look a bit happier," he added, disgruntled.

Harry shifted in his seat awkwardly. "I'm your Healer, Draco," he said softly. "I can't fall in love with you. Besides, I have Ginny, and I love her."

"So? I still love Astoria. You can share your heart with more than one person." Draco set the cup down, slid off the bed so that he was standing right in front of Harry, forcing the Healer to look up at him. He cupped Harry's face, his thumb stroking the blushing cheeks gently.

"I wish I could hate you," he whispered, kissing Harry's forehead, planting a trail of tiny kisses down his nose to his lips. "I tried to. I _wanted_ to. I wish I'd been weaker twelve years ago, that I'd turned you over to the Dark Lord instead of stalling." He pushed back Harry's messy hair fondly, smiling as he caught sight of grey hairs. Harry, sensing Draco's need to talk, stayed quiet.

"Almost every night, from that day until the eve of the Final Battle itself, Bellatrix found me," Draco whispered. "She even came to Hogwarts, lured me out onto the grounds, or had the Carrows take me from my dorm."

"What did she do?" Harry's voice was even quieter than Draco's.

"She... She did things. She brought me Muggles and Mudbloods to deal with. I killed fourteen Mudbloods, most of them not even Hogwarts age, and another twenty Muggles. I have blood on my hands that I can never get rid of." He closed his eyes, rested his head against Harry's, felt Harry's hands reach up to steady him.

"Every time it happened, she blamed you, or Weasley, or Granger. She wanted me to hate you, to want to kill you. I still want to, Harry. I will love you even after I have killed you."

"You won't do it." Harry was confident.

"No," agreed Draco. "You have to kill me first."

Harry stood up so quickly that the chair flew back against the wall.

"No." He pushed Draco's hands away. "You don't know what you're talking about!"

"Yes, I do! I'm a murderer, Harry. I don't deserve to live – I _can't_ live, not with her in my head, twisting my thoughts! _She_ is the reason I'm in here, because I fought her, and I lost! _She_ is the reason I was blacking out. I should have said something sooner. I was too afraid, and for my weakness, my daughter died."

Harry was trembling. "How do you know all this?"

"You can't use the Killing Curse on yourself, Harry. It affected me the way it did because I had no reason to live, no reason to fight. Instead of tearing my soul from my body, it ripped away the memories. I don't know why it did what it did – you're the Healer, not me – but I know why I'm getting better, and it's because of _you_. You gave me a reason to live, a reason to put myself back together again." Draco wrapped his arms around Harry's waist, rested his cheek against the other man's back. "I can't live with myself, love."

"What–" Harryís voice cracked. "What about Narcissa? Astoria?"

Draco laughed. It wasn't a happy sound. "Do you really think Tori can truly forgive what I have done? Not blaming me is a far cry from forgiveness, Harry. If I were to leave, to go to her, Artemis would always be there, between us. If she conceived again, how could I put myself near her? How could I trust myself around our children? No, she is better off away from me, safe. As for Mother..." He trailed off. It was too complicated for words.

Harry's shoulders were shaking. Was he crying?

"Please, Harry. You once said you'd do anything for me. I need you to do this. For me."

The silence, broken only by Harry's soft sobs, dragged on. Draco waited, holding Harry tightly, until he could pull himself together enough to answer.

"Now that we know what the problem is, there are potions we could try." He turned, held Draco tightly. "I won't give up on you."

Draco hated himself for this. "What about Ginny?"

Harry buried his face in Draco's shoulder.

"What happens if I'm better? If I'm released?" He whispered in Harry's ear. "Would you be able to stay away from me, love? Would you go to your wife after making love to another man? Could you tuck your children into bed and then sneak out to visit me? We both know we're not strong enough to keep away from each other." Draco stroked Harry's hair. "You have to do this. For Ginny, for the kids, for Astoria, for yourself, and for me. Above all, for me."

"I... I can't."

"Then I'll tell them everything."

Harry drew back.

"I'll come back tonight. Think about what you're asking, Draco."


	7. Chapter 7

"Good evening, Draco."

Draco fell into Harry's arms. Harry held him tightly.

"I'm still sure," he breathed. Harry silenced him with his lips.

"Harry..."

"Come with me, Draco. I've pulled some strings, and the Powers That Be are thrilled with your progress. Harry tried to smile. "They want the room back when you leave." Draco chuckled. "They've given permission for you to try leaving the room for an hour. One hour, Draco – no more."

Draco drew back. "I can go home?" he whispered.

Harry shook his head. "No. You're not to go anywhere with people in case you're still a danger."

"Do you think I'm dangerous?"

"Only to me." Harry did manage a smile that time. "Do you want to go outside with me, Draco?"

"Yes!" Draco couldn't stop the excitement. To be outside, to see the sky, the stars, breathe fresh air, with Harry by his side – 

"Are you trying to change my mind, Harry?" he asked, suddenly suspicious. The sheepish look on Harry's face was answer enough.

"Is it working?" He looked so hopeful that Draco was almost convinced. They could do this, run away and live abroad, on a sunny island where clothing was optional, spend the rest of his life healing–

Astoria's loving eyes and warm smile sprang to mind. Yes, she could come too, and...

And never forgive him for taking their daughter away.

"I want to see my daughter's grave, Harry. Please."

"I don't think that would be a very good idea, Draco."

"Damn it!" Draco's self control started to slip. Her laughter was in his ears again and he laid Harry out with one punch. Alarms started ringing outside his four walls – when had he come to think of them as his? – and he staggered back to the bed, clutching at it until his fingers hurt. Harry rolled over, groaning.

"Healer Potter?" A worried voice rang out in the room, deafening even his memories. "Healer Potter, do you need assistance?"

"No." Draco nearly wept with relief and gratitude as Harry sat up, touching his wand to his throat to amplify his voice. "Everything's fine, Mary. Thank you." Harry glared up until Draco skittered back, sat on the bed, hands tucked firmly beneath him.

"I'm sorry," he said once Harry was standing again.

"It's fine." Harry rubbed his jaw. "I've had worse from patients, believe me. You've done worse yourself." He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up more than it usually was. "I've come up with a few different angles we can try in your healing, Draco. We can try to erase those memories, or try Muggle-style counselling and therapy. You _can_ get better. I thought that maybe, if you went outside, saw the world again, it might help you want to heal." His voice was so small by the end of this that Draco had to strain to hear it.

"It's not that I don't appreciate the thought, Harry. I know how much you care about me." Draco enjoyed watching the blush return to Harry's cheeks. "A part of me _does_ want to go home. I want to see Astoria, to tell her how sorry I am..."

"You could do that, one day."

"No. I couldn't." Draco turned away from Harry, wrapping his arms tightly around himself. "I'm a coward. Always have been, and always will be. I can't face her."

"She knows it was out of your control."

Draco gave a bitter laugh. "That's the sort of thing that's easy to say to others, but not so easy to stick to when you're face to face with the one who did it." He drew up his knees, rested his head against them. "I feel like I've spent the years since the war at the bottom of a pit, one so deep that all I could see is a speck of sunshine at the top. Astoria was my sunshine. When we found out she was pregnant, I felt like I could start to climb out of the darkness. Here was something good, something the war could never taint. I wanted to be a better man, a better father than mine was to me." He sighed. "Now she's gone. The walls of the pit have caved in, and I can't see the light any more. There _is_ no light, not for me."

He half-turned, enough to see that Harry was on the verge of tears. "Leave me here, Harry. It may be dark but it's quiet. It's safe."

"Let me help you, Draco."

"Help me find peace."

When he looked up, Harry had that stubborn look on his face, the one that said he wouldn't change his mind, no matter what.

Draco's eyes opened wide. Bellatrix Lestrange was standing behind Harry.

"Go away!" he screamed, pressing himself back against the wall to get away from her. "Leave me alone!"

"Draco?" Harry took a step forward. His mouth was moving but whatever he was saying was drowned out by her laughter.

"Why won't she leave me alone?!" A manic strength was filling him, propelling him off the bed. He knocked Harry to the floor. A wand, there had to be a wand here somewhere, he was going to kill her if it was the last thing he did–

"Draco, stop!"

–there it was, holly, twelve inches, he didn't care what the core was because it was in his hand, not Harry's; the Boy-Who-Lived was bleeding on the floor. Alarms were ringing outside and he could hear people approaching.

"Draco!" A weight tackled him, knocking him down. When he looked back, she was gone, and Harry was furious.

"What," he asked, enunciating every word carefully, "was _that_ , Draco Malfoy?"

"Bellatrix!" Draco didn't fight as Harry wrestled his wand back. "She was _there_ , Harry, standing behind you – she was laughing at me!"

Harry cautiously glanced behind him. "There's no one here, Draco."

"I know!" Draco tore at his hair in frustration.

"Okay." Harry slipped his wand back into his robes. "We'll start you on a new course of potions until you decide whether or not you want the Memory Charm or the counselling. They should–"

"NO!" Draco's voice echoed around the room, silencing Harry. "No," he whispered again, once the echoes had died down. "I don't want any more treatment. I refuse it. I don't want to go outside, or to see anyone. I want you to take that fucking wand of yours and hit me with the Killing Curse to finish what I started six years ago."

"Draco." Harry's voice cracked. "I can't."

"Kill me, or I'll do it myself." Draco's voice, in contract, was steady. He reached out to wipe the trickle of blood that was running down Harry's chin. "This is what I want, Harry."

"No one really wants to die."

"How can a Healer be so naive as to say that? Of course people do. When they're tired of the pain and they know there's no escape or no cure. When they have to live the rest of their lives as half a person, crippled by illness. When death is a better option than life. I know that Healers have dispensation to use the Killing Curse in certain cases."

Harry shook his head. "Not me. I specialise in healing the mind. Even if I could, I'd need authority from your family _and_ from the Board, and they are not going to let me help you commit suicide."

"I thought you became a Healer to help me." Draco stared at Harry accusingly.

"Yes – help you get better! Help you go home! Not– not to do this!"

The alarms were still ringing. A voice from outside broke the silence.

"Healer Potter, Security is on stand-by."

Harry touched his wand to his throat. "Thank you," he said, voice amplified. "Tell them to wait for my instructions."

"Yes, sir."

Draco stared longingly at Harry's wand. Neither of them dared to break the silence.

"Please," Draco said at last, his strength deserting him. He fell to his knees, not caring for the pain as they hit the floor. "Please, Harry. Set me free from all of this." He looked up. "If you love me, do this for me."

"Draco..." Those green eyes were almost enough to keep his worst memories at bay. They never moved from his as Harry knelt before him, drew him into an embrace. "Oh, Draco. I'm so sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Draco breathed, inhaling Harry's scent, enjoying the warmth of his skin through the Healer robes. "I want this. I can be with my father and Uncle Severus again."

"I'm sorry," Harry repeated. He kissed Draco's forehead, then drew back enough to plant a firm kiss on his lips; their eyes drifted closed. Draco's last thought, as the spell hit him, was that there were worse deaths to be had than kissing Harry Potter.

* * *

Jasmine and laughter greeted him.

It was easy to turn away from them, to leave her screaming furiously behind him. There was peace, stillness, blessed silence.

* * *

"Mister Malfoy? Draco, can you hear me?"

His eyes opened slowly. Three faces swam into view.

The first, a woman, had mostly grey hair, worried eyes and a nervous smile. The second, a sad brunette, was next to her. The last was a man, with messy black hair, green eyes and glasses.

"Where am I?" he asked, sitting up.

"You're in St Mungo's, Mister Malfoy," the black haired man said.

"Are you okay?" The sad woman was speaking. He looked over at her, letting his confusion show.

"I– I think so. What happened?"

"You were in an accident. We have been very worried about you."

He looked down at his hands, then back at the faces around him, struggling to find the right words.

"Who..." He frowned, rubbed at his forehead.

"Who am I?"

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment here or at [Livejournal](http://hp-darkarts.livejournal.com/111580.html)


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